the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

I’ve been here almost a month, and I’m still fighting a learning curve on the public transportation system. I’ve taken buses successfully a couple of times, and unsuccessfully several, which leaves me to believe that my “successful” attempts were little more than blind luck.

You know how American cities will post bus numbers and schedules and sometimes even provide maps of the routes at bus stops? Yeah. We don’t do that here. Oh, oh, oh, and…you know how American buses post the time of all stops along the route? Yeah. We don’t do that here, either. Nope. We have the starting point and time, and the destination point and time, and I have a sneaking suspicion that even those are mere guesses.

The ESHOT* has a website in Turkish and another one in English. Here, you can randomly select a bus number and it will provide a map of the route. You can mouse over it and it will tell you where all the stops are.** You can also print out a copy of its so-called “schedule.” The problem is, the route and stops are probably the most important bits of info here, and they are not available to you when you’re actually trying to catch a bus.

* Pronounced es-HOTE—just like it’s spelled.

** The code for many of which I have yet to divine. I’m used to them being labeled by street or region of the city, but most of the stops here seem connected to neither. Maybe I need a more detailed street map.

Once you’re on the bus, there’s a nifty flat screen display of the route and suggested stops, and they announce each upcoming stop, but once you get on the bus, you’re committed, at least for a block or two.

You see my problem.

Further, the system I’m accustomed to requires that you board the bus you need on the correct side of the street. If you’re going north, for example, you wait for the bus you want on the northbound side of the street; if you catch the same number bus on the southbound side, you discover new, interesting, and often scary parts of the city. Well…all the buses I was trying to catch Thursday evening stopped only on the westbound side directly facing the Bay of Izmir. Since their continuing eastbound from that point would be counterproductive, I assumed they would take their cargo north or south. Thus, I searched for an eastbound bus on the eastbound side of the street.

I’ve traveled abroad a decent amount and still I never noticed how much we base our assumptions on our cultures. When those assumptions are not met, we naturally assume the offending culture is chock full of idiots.* And so it was that I wasted 25 minutes looking for any of twelve bus numbers that would drop me at NATO, and I found none of them because I was on the right wrong side of the street.

* Which it is—just like ours.

I only figured out where to catch my buses until I came back home, which is how I ended up taking the “taksi,” despite my unfortunate experience with another taxi that very morning. It may be instructive to read about my maiden voyage first….

I’d left the hotel that morning for good. It was to be my first night in my new pad. Since I had a hundred pounds of luggage, I hired a taxi. One of the bellhops at the hotel offered to explain to the cabbie where I was going. I said, “Sure. Halil Rifat Pasa 10.” He smiled and communicated this to the cabbie, who nodded, said “Tamam” (“OK”), and off we went.

He started in the right direction, and he even turned once in the proper direction. I naturally assumed he had the address and we’d be there shortly. I can walk to my apartment from the Swissotel in twenty minutes, so I was looking at a ten-minute cab ride, tops, which translates to a fare of about 7TL (about $4.50).

When I noticed that none of the scenery looked familiar, I produced the card that the housing office had attached to my keys. This card lists the address and apartment number at the top, then lists amenities. I handed the card to the driver and pointed at the address at the top. He said, “Tamam,” with a gesture that suggested I was insulting him. I settled back and tried to decide whether I felt reassured or apprehensive.

In another five or ten minutes, we arrived at a foreign part of town. I think he was taking me to the monument the street is named after. I suppose tourists haul a hundred pounds of luggage with them on sightseeing tours every other day.

I again pointed at the written address, and said, “Halil Rifat Pasa Cadessi 10,” whereupon he pulled over and asked another cabbie something. The only part I understood was “combi electric.” He said this twice. I heard “Tamam,” and he drove slowly up the street peering at business signs. At this point, I realized he thought I was looking for a combi-electric shop.* Do people really go shopping with 100 pounds of luggage here? Or maybe he thinks foreigners are unspeakably strange that they’d do such a thing, but lacks the vocabulary and/or rudeness to express it.

* A combi-electric heater—which heats water on demand and can also use gas—is one of the features of my apartment, and was listed directly under the address. People who lack this feature get heated water only when the building manager, who has more rights than the apartment’s owner here, decides to provide heated water. As the Turks keep very different hours than do Americans—newsstands don’t open until 7:30 or 8 in the morning, for example—the water is likely to be heated only after we’re at work.

ME: NO, uh….hayir!*

* I’m not a fan of verbal pauses (Obama’s habit of regularly inserting them annoys me), but I find that they efficiently express my struggle with Turkish, and naturally imply that I should be spoken to like a two-year-old—which may help communication when and if I reach that level of proficiency.

I pulled out a map and pointed to the very clearly marked location of my apartment on Halil Rifat Pasa Caddessi. He took the map then pulled over and asked another passerby how to get there.

OK. I just handed you a map* with a clearly marked destination with street names, and you still don’t know how to get there or where you are right now, and this is your city where you drive a cab.

* Speaking of which, why don’t you have a bloody map?

In all fairness, I’ve found street directions difficult to master* here because intersections rarely take the form of right angles. Most of them are about 60 to 80 degrees, which means they feature five or six choices instead of the archaic and boring four. So I’ll strike out in the right direction, only to come to a corner and find myself standing in a giant asterisk (or a huge traffic circle the likes of which you’d have to see to believe, out of which sprout five or six streets). My “sense of direction” is built—laboriously, at that—upon a basic feel for how right angles work on maps. Acute angles just…aren’t right.

* “Master” is an optimistic word. What I really mean is “understand at a first-grade level.”

Maybe my cabbie has the same problem, but this baffles me, too. Don’t Turkish people know how to navigate their own streets? (It also makes me wonder if our system would confuse them. It might strike them as an extravagant waste of space.)

Anyway…he finally found the right street, but he was on the wrong end. By the time he got to my end, the meter said I owed him 22 lira and change. I handed him a 50. He gave me back 26 and some pennies. I asked where the rest of my change was (he lost his tip about five miles back, in my opinion). He said something in Turkish—probably about how his kids haven’t eaten for two days. I looked at the inadequate change in my hand again, then back at him. He took the change back and handed me another five. I dragged my bags into my apartment.

It was 11:30am. He had used 40 minutes of my day to take me two miles from the hotel. I unpacked the few things I had then struck out for the BX. I needed pillows and sheets and such, and I was scheduled to work a 12-hour graveyard that evening. I wanted some rest before I had to go in.

I took the subway to the BX, bought only the things I desperately needed, and came back. Thanks to modern medicine, I was able to get some sleep before rising to go to work.

I hadn’t yet tried to get to work from here, but I had done research on the bus lines. As previously noted, it didn’t help that night. And so it was that I swallowed the bile in my throat and hailed another cab. I told myself that (1) it would be unfair to judge the entire industry on what may have been a simple misunderstanding or an illiterate but well-meaning cabbie, and (2) I now knew better than to assume the driver understood where I was going.

I said “NATO.” He looked confused. I pulled out my NATO ID and point out “NATO” at the top. It also has that tale-tell blue star on it. He said, “Buca?” I said yes. Off we went.

I’ve decided that the cabbies here are so desperate for your business (well, everyone is) that their complete ignorance of where you’re going and their inability to speak your language at all have no bearing on the situation. I could hop in the back of a cab and say, “Take me to Disneyworld,” and the cabbie would smile, nod reassuringly, and speed off.

Then they try to talk to me en route, even when it’s clear I don’t understand a word.* I’ve decided in my now-extensive experience with these pinheads that they’re trying to figure out where I want them to take me.

* Which just makes them talk louder, like I’m deaf or retarded—which of course I am. Maybe they’re saying, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE WORDS THAT ARE COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH?”

Let’s review, then: I gave you my destination and you indicated you understood. You know I speak no Turkish. Is it possible that maybe perhaps asking for clarification en route might be ineffective? I’m just asking questions here.

Maybe Turkish passengers enjoy this interactive experience. After all, they’re quite interactive in every other way I’ve observed so far. Maybe it’s a bit like shopping, where haggling is part of the experience, where the shopping excursion is incomplete without a good argument. Perhaps being a baffled cabbie’s guide dog so he doesn’t drive you into the bay is just part of an afternoon jaunt.

This cabbie didn’t have a map, either. I don’t want to be too hasty, but a trend seems to be developing here. And like the other, he was incapable of reading one when it was provided—which was as soon as I realized the scenery was wrong. He finally pulled over and asked someone. Or three someones. Then he looked at the map, drove a bit, parked the car, and got out to consult another cabbie. I hadn’t thought I’d be there long enough to develop a thirst, but I was, so I hopped out and trotted across the street to buy some water. The cabbie came after me, like the thought I was escaping (in a random part of a city where I don’t speak the language?).

This cabbie was polite, at least. Before he lit up a cigarette in the car, he offered me one.

He got me to NATO a mere 35 minutes after my shuttle to DISKOHIT had left, meaning he’d been driving around lost with me for 50 minutes. He charged me 42 lira. I handed him 20. Or I tried. He wouldn’t take it. I said, “The ride is worth 20 lira.* Do you want any money, then?” He followed me into the guard shack where the Turkish Air Force security guys on duty tried to help.

* Not even. Cab service from Konak to NATO is worth 12 lira at most.

The cabbie was pissed. He said I gave him incorrect directions. He said he didn’t understand “NATO” because I pronounce it strange (I got this through translation). I pulled out my NATO card and held it in front of him. I said, “Look familiar?” The Turkish guys translated. I pulled out my map and said, “Even when I gave him a map, he still couldn’t find it. That isn’t my problem.” Again, they translated.

In an admirable attempt to keep the peace, the Turkish Air Force guys tried to get me to meet him halfway, at least. I offered 25. He was still scandalized. He said 35. So I said, “Fine. I’m back down to 20, then.”

That went over well, as you might imagine. He doesn’t own the cab, he explained. The money would come out of his pocket. This failed to excite my pity. Quite the contrary: This would be a lesson he’d not soon forget. I finally emptied out my pockets and gave him all I had: Something like 28 lira. He wasn’t prepared to settle for anything less than 30. I turned out my pockets like Bugs Bunny and said, “Where are you going to get it?” He raised his palms wide, uttered something the guards mercifully didn’t translate, and walked away.

I turned to the Turkish guys, said “Teshekkurler” (“Thank you very much”—think “testicular” but replace that one sound, and you’ve got it), and apologized for the hassle. They said no problem; this happens from time to time. I also asked if there was ANY way I might get to DISKOHIT.* DISKOHIT is a good 40-minute drive from NATO, and the American shuttle runs only once every 12 hours (brilliant, huh?). Most people, I hear, drive or catch a ride with someone else who drives since it’s a pain to go to NATO then catch the shuttle to the bunker. I don’t yet know anyone who drives, though. Besides, our schedules are so “flexible”** right now that any transportation plans must needs be equally fluid. To compound the problem, I didn’t yet have any phone numbers for the bunker (I do now). I tried the only number I had access to, which was Roger’s cell. It was off, which meant he was either still on duty or driving home.

* I forget what this stands for, but it makes me think of platform shoes, polyester pants, and bad hair. It’s the Cold War bunker we’re working in right now.

** Flexibility is the key to air power.

No problem, I thought. Someone will call my cell and ask where I am.

The shuttle for the Turkish guard shift would leave at 2300. (This shuttle isn’t on the American schedule, for some reason, although we are welcome to take it.) The chief master sergeant and major on shift made several calls trying to find me a ride. Whether they were anxious to help or desperate to have the crazy American lady who picks fights with cabbies out of their hair, I was thankful for their efforts. They called no joy, so I waited with them in their office, where they had a young recruit bring me chai.

In return, I offered my assistance to help them translate the NATO General Directive into Turkish. They’ve been plodding through this manual for a while now, and I feel for them. I have trouble understanding US government regulations and official documents myself. I can’t imagine the struggle required to translate them into English so they then can be translated into Turkish.

Three hours later, just after I’d been notified that the shuttle was about ready, the night crew guy called from the bunker. He said that everything’s under control, I don’t work again until Sunday’s day shift, and I should go home and get some sleep.

And thus it was that the gentlemen took me to the bus stop where I caught a bus I knew was going in the right direction, and promptly got thoroughly lost again.

But I didn’t hire a cab. I think I’ll shoot myself in the head before I again share my lostness with a driver who speaks no English and has a worse sense of direction than I do. My blood pressure would prefer I walk until my feet are bloody nubs, teshekkurler.

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